Heirs of All Eternity
by xahra99
Summary: Alistair takes on a quest to slay a legendary dragon...while Zevran is on a quest to get into Alistair's pants. Postgame. Complete. Fluff and innuendo. One-shot. Written for diabla616 for the Not Prime Time 2013 challenge.


Heirs of All Eternity

A Dragon Age: Origins fan fiction.

Written for the Not Prime Time ficathon and the prompt ' _Alistair and Zev are complete opposites as far as experience goes too, and they're both at extreme ends of the scale. I'd love to see a fic which deals with the uneven dynamic this could cause in a relationship, even if they aren't paired together_' by diabla616.

Snow-capped mountains stabbed the sky like a knife through a traitor's heart. Their reflections hung suspended in a lake smooth as a silver-backed mirror. The still air smelt of moss and honey, without a single breeze to stir the waters and ruin the beauty of the view.

Alistair would have framed the image if he could. Instead he lay in the dry grass at the edge of the lake and admired the scene.

It was a perfect afternoon.

Alistair wasn't hungry, tired or wounded, the sun was warm, and nobody was trying to kill him. This combination of circumstances alone was unusual enough for the occasion to be noteworthy. As he was also perfectly happy, the experience was nearly unique.

He sighed as a stone flew over his head. The stone was flat and skipped three times on the surface of the water before sinking. The reflection shattered, reformed for a second, and broke once more as a second stone followed the first.

Alistair rolled over and glared at Zevran, "I was enjoying that," he said.

"Enjoying what?" Zevran asked as he straightened, a third stone clutched in his hand.

"Peace and quiet," said Alistair.

The elf snorted. "Peace and quiet?" he said as he tossed the stone and flopped comfortably beside Alistair, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. "You mean _boring_."

Alistair sighed. These days he found that he valued peace and quiet more highly than gold, and certainly more than the bathhouses and good wine of the cities. Their journey from Ferelden to the Marchlands had been a long one, and strange by any man's reckoning. Alistair was ready for a rest. The mountains were a perfect place to do it. The forests reminded him of his days in Redcliffe. Monsters lived there, but they were small, stupid and helpfully marked with scales or spines or pointed teeth. Monsters in the city could look like _anything_.

Zevran and Alistair had just spent a handful of hard months in Kirkwall and had left the city with nothing but trouble and scars to show for their pains. The wilderness was tough, but nowhere was tougher than the City of Chains. Mountain monsters hoarded gold, but nobody in the ports collected anything except diseases.

Even Zevran, who never would have described himself as anything except a city elf, had agreed that a journey to the mountains was probably a good idea. Alistair suspected that even his partner had been a little tired of city life.

He mentioned this to Zevran, who sniffed.

"Tired of the city? Never! When a man is tired of Antiva he is tired of life."

"Men don't usually live long enough to _become_ tired of Antiva." Alistair pointed out. "What's the local life expectancy, three months?"

"It's more like six," said Zevran defensively. He began to extol the virtues of Antiva at great length. Alistair tuned out after the second mention of 'fish sauce' and went back to watching the lake. As the ripples settled, he saw in its reflection a small gowned figure headed towards the door of the tiny chantry.

"The sister's here," he said.

Zevran groaned. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Deadly," Alistair said. He got up, checking the hang of his sword instinctively, and shouldered his pack with a groan. "Look, it can't hurt to have the Maker on our side for once."

"We've done without the Maker's blessing for _years_."

"Exactly. Look where that got us."

Zevran shrugged and picked up his own bundle with ease. It was not the first time that Alistair, sweating under the weight of a complete suit of mail, had envied the elf his leather rogue's armour. The Templars taught that carrying one's own armour was good for the soul. It was certainly good for one's stamina. "We've not had a bad run."

"I wouldn't call it good," said Alistair.

"That's still no reason to swear an oath of celibacy. It is lucky for you that I am a most understanding elf. Many men would feel offended."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "It's for _one day_," he said. "It won't kill you."

"It might," Zevran said. "I've never tried."

"Trust me, it won't. I should know. I lived in the Chantry for ten years."

"Yes, and look what happened." Zevran raised one tawny Antivan eyebrow. "They nearly turned you into a eunuch. It was a good job I came along when I did. Your rapier would have rusted in its sheath."

"They say that only those who are blessed by the Maker and pure in heart may slay this dragon," Alistair said between gritted teeth. "So that's what we're going to do. Just think of the treasure."

"There will be other dragons."

"What other dragons? The only other quest I've heard worth taking is that bandit brotherhood, the Chosen Few –and nobody seems to know just where they are."

Zevran sighed. "Very well. An oath is just an oath. Any man can break it-" He broke off as Alistair gave him a disapproving look. "What? I was an assassin; we break our promises all the time, it's a fact of life, and there's nothing _wrong _about it."

"Actually," Alistair said, "I think you'll find there is."

"I never got any complaints."

"You did, you just didn't listen," said Alistair. They had reached the chantry, and he raised his hand to knock on the weathered door. The sound echoed through the small building.

"I listen to _yours._"

"I've never complained."

Zevran smiled. It was a self-satisfied smile, a seductive smirk that should by rights have been banned in fourteen countries. "You have had no reason to," he said smugly.

The door creaked open.

The sister who opened it looked rather nonplussed. "Welcome," she said in a voice that didn't mean it. She held the door half-closed, a fragile defence against two armed men, but the look on her face could have defeated armies. It was a fiercer glare than one usually found on a devout sister of the chantry.

"Thank you," Alistair said politely. "We've come for a blessing."

"We've come," Zevran said, "to slay your dragon. He-" he jabbed his chin at Alistair, "insists the blessing is essential before we depart. Myself, I have my doubts. Your graveyard is quite large for such a small chantry."

The sister clasped her hands and endeavoured to look pious. "Alas, few adventurers think to enlist the Maker's aid in their quest," she said. "It is common knowledge that the monster may only be slain by a knight who is honoured by the Maker's divine blessing. Not all men are wise enough to choose the blessing before departing on their quest."

Zevran rolled his eyes. "We've killed arch demons," he said. "I think we can handle one dragon, blessing or no."

The sister looked surprised. "An arch demon?" she enquired.

"It was only one arch demon," Alistair said hastily.

Zevran shrugged. "We still killed it_,_" he said.

Alistair shuddered as he recalled the sulphurous fumes of the demon's breath and the way its towering bulk had blotted out the sky. "Leliana helped," he pointed out.

"She was a bard."

"She was a Chantry lay sister."

"It's not the same," argued Zevran. "We could have done it without her; we didn't need her to slay the dr-"

The sister coughed loudly. "As I was saying-" She gave them both a reproving look. "Many have tried and failed to rid us of this monster. They-"

"We've killed a lot of monsters. I don't see why this one should be any different."

Alistair sighed. "You really don't know how to behave in a chantry, do you?" He turned to the sister, who was watching Zevran with the cautious interest of a woman who was wondering just what the elf would say next. "Please excuse my friend. He's from Antiva. The blessing, please?"

"Of course," the sister said in a tone of voice that suggested she was considering asking the two of them to leave and never return."A small donation is customary."

Alistair nodded. He dug in his belt pouch and held out a handful of copper bits.

The sister regarded the money disdainfully."Not _that _small."

Alistair added a silver coin to the copper. The sister nodded and leant forwards with a covetous look on her face. She avoided touching Alistair's palm as she scooped up the coins. Alistair half-expected her to bite the metal, but she merely slipped the coins into her robe and said "Do come inside."

The chantry was small and plain, with the familiar cruciform layout of any Andrastian chantry in the Free Marches. There was no paint or decoration on the bare stone walls, but the ceiling had been beautifully constructed by somebody who, from the look of it, had been more familiar with boat-building than joinery. There was a small window that overlooked the lake, but no stained glass.

"You may leave your weapons at the door," said the sister.

Alistair deposited his worn hand and-a half sword from the rack by the entrance. Beside him, Zevran removed his weapons one by one. Alistair waited, and then he waited some more while Zevran unfastened numerous small and lethal objects from his body.

"Zevran," he said at last, "this is a _chantry_, not a drinking den. We're in no danger."

Zevran slipped a dagger from his Antivan leather boots."Really, Alistair. I thought that I had taught you to always be prepared." He laid the dagger on the flagstones with a clink next to an arsenal of knives. "You should know that you can never have too much coin, too much charm, or too much weaponry."

"Are you finished?" the sister asked them both.

"I am. You'd better ask him."

"I feel naked," Zevran complained.

"Well. You're not."

"Please kneel," said the sister.

Alistair and Zevran looked at each other. Alistair shrugged. Zevran sighed. They both knelt upon the flagstones.

The sister picked up a taper from the altar and lit a pair of candles. She shook the taper to quench the spark and turned back, smoke rising like a dark halo around her head.

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked, and do not falter," she intoned. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."

Alistair began to wish that he had worn his armour to the chantry, or at least his poleyns. The feel of cold stone under his knees reminded him uncomfortably of his Templar training. It was not a pleasant memory.

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow," said the sister in a voice like the edge of a blade. "In their blood the Maker's will is written." She paused dramatically. "Repeat the next lines after me.'I shall honour the Maker. I shall walk in the light. I shall commit no sin. I will honour this pledge until I have fulfilled my quest and killed the beast which plagues this chantry, and in return the Maker shall honour me with His blessing.'"

The cant was familiar. Alistair repeated the words. Zevran spoke into the flagstones, bowing his head until his braids brushed the floor. Alistair got the feeling that he was trying not to laugh.

The lay sister frowned. "The Maker welcomes you," she said. "Walk in his Light."

"We thank him," Alistair said politely. Beside him, Zevran rubbed his back and mumbled something that was certainly _not_ polite.

The sister gave Alistair a cynical smile. "Remember that only those who are pure in heart may slay the beast," she said. "You may collect your weapons from the door. Should you be successful in your quest, you may leave a donation. If there is nothing else-"

"If you could point us in the direction of the dragon, lady," said Alistair. Zevran was an indifferent tracker despite his Dalish heritage. Alistair had done his fair share of tracking, but he had found that it was much simpler just to ask for directions.

The sister pinched out the candles. "Follow the path along the lake," she said, "then take the left trail when it forks towards the outcrop. The dragon's cave is there. It is not hard to find, but you should journey in the morning when the light is better." She wiped her ashy fingers upon her skirts, picked up a collection bowl from the altar and pushed it towards the adventurers.

"My thanks," Alistair said courteously. He dropped some copper bits into the bowl.

Zevran stepped back as the bowl came towards him. "Not today, thank you."

The sister forced a smile. "Thank you, ser knight." She pushed the bowl back to Zevran, which Alistair could have told her was pushing her luck. "And you-ser?"

Zevran pushed the bowl away again. "As you can see I am no knight. I am an adventurer of the most exciting sort."

The sister glared at him and snatched the bowl away with a scowl. Alistair noticed that she wisely refrained from asking Zevran exactly what that meant. He coughed and waved away incense fumes with the back of one gloved hand. "We better go."

"Maker watch over you," the sister said. She was already dredging the depths of the collection bowl.

"And you." Alistair said politely. He picked up his sword and buckled the scabbard onto his belt. Zevran scooped his knives into his pack, and they left the chantry and headed down towards the lake in the last of the afternoon light.

Eventually Alistair said "I know she was a money-hunting miser, but you could have been more polite."

"I am devoted in my way, "said Zevran, "and my way is not that way. I shall ask forgiveness later. Will that suffice?"

"That implies that you are sorry. And I know you're not."

"The Maker has never told me he finds my confessions insufficient."

Alistair refused to be draw into an argument. They had been companions a long time, and Zevran's Antivan flexibility and Alistair's rather threadbare faith had been discussed a dozen times in as many places. "What did you think of her?" he asked.

Zevran frowned. "A typical chantry sister-and a Marcher to the core. They'd sell Andraste's blood by bucketfuls, those ones. You?"

"I'm not sure," said Alistair. "There was...something odd about her."

"Really? She was just what I expected." Zevran was already wandering down to the shore, his mind on food and firelight and a comfortable place to spend the night. "Where d'you want to set up the tent."

"By the lake," Alistair said.

He wrestled the tent into submission while Zevran built a hearth of smooth stones by the lakeshore. By the time the tent had performed its familiar magic of turning a rapidly cooling evening into a small square of shelter for the night Zevran had coaxed the fire into life. The two of them sat under the star-sprinkled sky and shared a skin of ale Alistair had bought from the last tavern they'd seen, three days before.

Zevran took a deep drink, surfacing with a thin frothy moustache. "Dragons to slay, lairs to loot," he said, and gave Alistair a sly glance. "Ridiculous oaths of purity to keep. I feel like a master painter who's just been struck blind. _Pure in heart_? Such nonsense. It is some ridiculous ploy. How do we know it's true?"

"They say that everyone else who's ever tried to kill this dragon is dead," Alistair said bluntly.

Zevran gave a small and elegant shrug.

"Doesn't that worry you?"

"Why should it? There are few things we have not killed," Zevran said, "Besides, more dead men means more armour to loot." He gave Alistair a long look and licked the foamy moustache from his upper lip with a slow, circular movement of his tongue that made Alistair swallow and cross his legs. "You are serious about this, aren't you? You Templars are always _so_ serious about your oaths."

"I'm not a Templar." Alistair took a drink. It began as a long drink but ended as a short one. The ale had been distinctly average to begin with and three days' travel had not improved its flavour. "Sometimes I wish I was you. Zevran."

"It's only natural," Zevran said kindly.

"You take everything so lightly."

Zevran looked up, eyes dark in the flickering firelight "Not everything," he said, and Alistair had the sudden urge to kiss him.

"And you make anything sound dirty."

"I can try," Zevran said. "Alistair, I have a question. You're not suggesting we really keep this ridiculous oath, are you? Nobody will know."

"I'll know."

Zevran spread his hands. "And here we have the problem."

"You love my moral righteousness."

"Alistair, I love many things about you, but not that." Zevran leant back in the dried grass and put his boots up on a stone. "Do we have to do this? There are other beasts to kill."

"Not here," Alistair said flatly. "Zevran, come on. It'll take us two days. Think of the money."

"I'm trying. I'm trying hard..." He sighed. "So hard..."

Alistair blushed. After five years of travel he had expected that he would be immune to Zevran's bawdy sense of humour but the elf had the unerring ability to make him feel like a gauche eighteen year-old. Most of the problem was down to experience. Sex for Zevran had never been anything other than fun. Alistair, on the other hand, had come late to fun, and sex too for that matter. He considered his life to have barely started until he left the Chantry at Duncan's side, and it wasn't until he'd met the Warden at Denerim that his life had really hits its stride. Sometimes he still felt guilty about leaving the Wardens to their battle, but he'd seen and done more since joining Zevran on his wanderings than he'd ever imagined.

He felt a brief sting as Zevran leant forwards and nipped his ear.

"You're thinking again," the elf said. "You should avoid that. It gives you wrinkles."

Alistair nearly reached up to bite the edge of one knife-bladed ear before he remembered his oathn. "Just thinking about Ferelden."

"Not that again. Alistair, I have told you of Antiva. There are few worse fates than kingship. Imagine-the fate of a kingdom in your hands. I can think of nothing worse. It makes me shudder."

"Thanks," Alistair said. "I think."

"I did not mean it like that. You would have been a good king. And I would have been an excellent royal assassin. But-"

"Kings shouldn't need assassins."

"Kings should not need a lot of things that they do. Still, you are a fortunate man, Alistair. You get to live your life for yourselves, rather than a country. We have a saying in Antiva, that if you are born to nothing then you are the heir of your own eternity."

"That's unbearably pretentious, even for you."

"It sounds better in Antivan." Zevran wrapped a tawny arm around Alistair's broad shoulders. "Besides, you love it."

"I suppose," said Alistair, "I must do."

"Then-"

"Zevran-"

"I thought you were joking."

"You thought?"

"I hoped," Zevran amended. "But really? Single bedrolls? No warm embraces? No massages? No No hopping borders? No rolling the oats? No riding the midnight horse? No playing the Orlesian flute?"

"You made that last one up."

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Like an oracle."

"You are no fun."

"I wish I had a copper for every time I've heard you say that. I'd be a lot richer."

"Oh, well." Zevran said. "I suppose I might as well sleep."

"Suit yourself. I'm going to sit up for a while. Sharpen my sword."

"I'll be in the tent. Sharpening my own blade is never the same."

"Good night, Zevran."

"Spoil sport," Zevran said as he crept into the tent.

The elf was still complaining the next morning, when they packed up the tent at dawn and set off around the lake to slay the chantry's dragon. Privately, Alistair thought that he should be the one complaining-after all; he was the one marching in a suit of mail. Zevran liked to talk, sharpening his tongue with conversation even as he kept his rapiers keen. It was a perpetual mystery to Alistair as to what Zevran found to talk about.

"You could be quieter," he said after a while.

The elf gave him a scornful look. "I am not the one clanking through the trees in full plate armour," he said.

Alistair had to grant him that one. He tried to walk as quietly as he could, watching the trees warily as he went. The forest might have been beautiful but it was a poor battleground. Moss slicked the pathway under Alistair's steel sabatons; lichen hung from low branches to block their view in all directions, and tree trunks restricted the swing of Alistair's great sword. He watched the patches of blue sky that appeared and vanished like magic between the thick foliage and sighed. Beside him, he noticed that Zevran had also fallen silent.

"I thought you'd like it here," Alistair said.

"I'm more of a city elf." said Zevran. "Joined the Dalish for a while. Didn't like it, though I kept the tattoos. Trees just aren't natural. They're so...dirty"

"Dirty? You lived in Antiva."

"Antiva's a city," Zevran said. "It's supposed to be dirty."

"I thought elves were all in touch with nature." Alistair said.

"Really? I thought all humans were sadly uninventive between the sheets." He gave Alistair a brilliant smile. "And then I met you."

"Point taken," Alistair agreed, flattered despite himself. He tried to concentrate upon their route-ten years as a Crow had done nothing for Zevran's woodcraft- but found to his surprise that the Chantry sister's route was easy to follow. The path was well-marked and winding, heading towards a rocky outcrop of cliffs that Alistair could just see beyond the canopy.

He saw something gleam in the mud at his feet.

"What's that?"

"Coin," Zevran said instantly. He bent down and picked the object up. "No...an arrowhead. Someone's been here before."

"Then it looks like we're on the right track, "said Alistair. Another bodkin gleamed on the path before them, leading them like breadcrumbs towards the rocks. They made their way towards the stones and cleared the cover of the trees.

"Well," said Zevran, "this is it."

Alistair looked around. A handful of scales were scattered like a hoard amongst the pebbles. "No sign of the lair, though."

"It must be around here somewhere;" Zevran said "We'll-"

"Wait!" Alistair held a finger to his mouth.

"What's wrong?"

Alistair tilted his head. ""The birds have stopped singing," he said, and frowned as he heard the sound of wind whistling through flight feathers. His frown deepened as an arrow ricocheted from the rock face a bare inch from his ear. Zevran had already drawn his own bow. Alistair flipped down the visor of his helm. His sword was in his hand before he even realised he'd drawn it.

"Hold!" he shouted. "We want no-"

His answer was another arrow. This one ricocheted from the steel of Alistair's helmet with a noise like a metallic bee.

Alistair gritted his teeth. They stood shoulder to shoulder, close enough that he felt the elf tense. "Scatter!" he shouted, and Zevran ducked away with a sigh of relief and vanished into the trees. He caught a glimpse of mail, heard a scream, and then the bandits charged.

They were poorly armed and armoured, but sheer numbers made up for their lack of equipment of skill. Alistair counted five men through the narrow slit of his helmet, and revised his estimate upwards as he saw another archer stalking forwards through the trees.

He shouted "A Theirin!" and went to meet them, sword in hand. It was a poor battleground. The rocks did the work of a third man at Alistair's back, but the trees forced the fighters to press in closely. Alistair took what swings he could in between the narrow tree trunks. Splinters flew like chopping firewood.

He caught a glimpse of Zevran through the trees. The elf had unslung the bow from his back and was shooting fast, but the trees got in his way as much as they did Alistair. An arrow hissed past his shoulder. Alistair flinched before he saw the fletching and realised that it was Zevran's arrow, fletched with the blue feathers of jaybirds.

"Look before you shoot!" he shouted.

Zevran gave the age old archer's salute. Alistair ripped his attention away from the elf and concentrated on the task at hand.

He killed one man with a lucky thrust, battering through his guard and straight up through his ribcage. The second bandit wore a breastplate, but no pauldrons, so Alistair ripped his sword up the man's calves and watched as he folded, screaming and thrashing and smearing blood on the stones at his feet. He stepped backwards and felt the crest of his helm scrape granite.

Somebody shouted "Stop!"

An arrow lanced from the bushes and landed at Alistair's feet. Zevran emerged, shaking his head. "Why should we? We're winning."

"Yes, but there are more of them," Alistair said from the corner of his helm.

Zevran snorted. "This is some ridiculous ploy to get us to lay down our guard," he said. "I say we fight."

One of the bandits stepped forwards. "Stop!" he said again.

"Let's listen to what he has to say," Alistair said. He tipped back his helm. "What have we got to lose?"

"Your companion is wise," the bandit leader said. He rapped his own breastplate with his knuckles. "We are the bandit brotherhood called the Chosen Few. No doubt you have heard of us." He frowned and reached up to shade his eyes against the sun. "I recognise your face," he said to Alistair. "Whose son are you?"

"My mother's," Alistair growled.

"Well, anyway. Submit and we shall show you mercy. Fight on, and you shall die."

Alistair and Zevran exchanged blank looks. Alistair was still wondering how to respond when Zevran said "It seems that introductions are in order. Very well. My name is Zevran Arainei, assassin, knife-fighter and Antivan Crow. My companion is Alistair Theirin, Grey Warden and base-born son of King Maric Theirin of Ferelden-I see you know the name. We're companions of the Warden, king makers and slayers of arch demons. You have stories. So do we. Let us match our tales and see which one is longest in the telling."

There was a long silence.

The bandit leader gestured to Alistair. "Have you anything to add?"

Alistair had never been able to top Zevran's grandiose speeches. He shook his head and nodded at Zevran. "What he said."

The bandit leader began to laugh. "You expect me to believe that?" he said between guffaws of laughter. "You had me until arch demon."

Alistair turned to Zevran. "You always overdo it," he said.

"I told you we should have spent more on clothing," Zevran murmured.

"Base-born? Really?"

"You are outnumbered," the bandit leader pointed out.

"And you outmanned," snapped Alistair. "Press us, and we shall defend ourselves. You will lose lives if you continue."

"Yes," the bandit said. "Yours."

"You have that wrong," said Alistair.

"He does look a little like King Cailan," said somebody from the trees.

The bandit lead shrugged. "Nothing personal," he said, "but a man's got to make a living?"

"By looting corpses?" Alistair could have summoned more indignance if he hadn't done the same thing many times himself.

The bandit leader unsheathed his sword and spun it a few times. "As I said, it is regrettable. But quite necessary."

Alistair slammed the visor of his helm down. He did not bother with fancy moves. He met the bandit's charge like a rock, solid and unbreakable. They broke against him like a wave.

Zevran wrapped a stealth spell around him like a cloak and vanished into the forest. A scream followed from a voice that was not Zevran's.

The bandits attacked and died, one by one, quickly and cleanly. Some of them screamed and cursed as they attacked. Alistair dispatched them without a word.

It took maybe two minutes. By then all of the bandits were dead or had vanished into the trees. A brief thrashing of branches marked Zevran's position for a moment, and then the elf stepped out of the trees, slinging his bow across his back and twitching one of his braids back into place. A narrow cut traced the tattoo on his left cheek.

Alistair wiped his sword on the grass before resheathing it. "I'm an idiot," he said.

Zevran arched his eyebrow. "That goes without saying, but why?"

"I knew something was the matter with that sister. She got the prayer wrong."

"Really? I never noticed."

"She must be in league."

Zevran, to whom casual deceit wasn't so much a betrayal as it was a way of life, shrugged. "Then she should have given her allies better advice. What about the dragon?"

Alistair looked up at the very cave-free cliff-face that loomed above them. "There wasn't a dragon."

"Pity," Zevran said. "I could have used some new boots." He kicked at the shabby corpse of a bandit, as if chastising the corpse for its poor sense of fashion. "What do we do now? Back to the chantry?"

"Back to the chantry," Alistair said. "Although if the sister had nothing to do with the plot, we're wasting our time, and if she did, then she'll likely have fled. Still, either way it'll be somewhere to stay for the night."

They hurried back to the chantry. The chantry door was closed but not locked. There would be no leaving weapons at the door this time. Alistair and Zevran burst in with their swords raised.

The chantry was empty. They searched the building, but it didn't take them long. There were few places to hide anything, and there was nothing hidden in the places that were there. Dust motes sparkled in the sunlight that streamed in through the single window. Their boots echoed on the floor.

"Oh well," Alistair as he checked behind the altar and found nothing. "It's a roof over our heads for tonight."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Zevran said glumly. He dropped his pack on the floor with a thud and the sound resonated around the empty building.

"We're not beggars yet." Alistair straightened. "Although we may be if we follow many leads like that one."

"I would be by your side even if you were a beggar."

"Really? I doubt that."

"Oh, you should have some faith, Alistair." Zevran manoeuvred Alistair's pack into place and thumped his feet up on the bedroll.

"In anything in particular? Get off that. I have to sleep on that tonight."

No, we have to sleep on that tonight. Just faith, in general. I have noticed it is a quality in which you are sometimes lacking. I would be at your side if you were the king of Ferelden, or a hopeless drunk, or anything in between."

"Liar," Alistair said. "You would be off adventuring." He crossed the floor and bent down to swipe his bedroll from under the heels of Zevran's Antivan leather boots.

"Maybe," Zevran said softly. "But I think that you would miss me."

Alistair smiled as he bent down to kiss him. "You know," he said, "I think I would."


End file.
